Letters to the North Pole
by Patricia de Lioncourt
Summary: Weechester!fic. A disappointed Dean does the only thing he can think to do to make sure that his dad is done with his hunt by Christmas… he writes to Santa. Of course, the response he gets is anything but expected.


**Warnings:** Some light sad moments, but they are followed by sweetness and good, I promise

**Prompt by: **phebemarie**  
**  
**Disclaimer:** I don't own Supernatural or any related characters. SPN belongs to Kripke. No money made here.

**Author's Notes: **Written for SPN-BigPretzel's Secret Satan Exchange. My first Weechester fic, so please be kind. You know, I don't write a lot of fanfic based around or on holidays… I don't know why. I love holidays—Halloween, Christmas… heck, I even enjoy Independence Day. Well, anyhow, I hope everyone enjoys this fic, and I hope phebemarie enjoys what I've written for her! Happy holidays! _P.S. Obviously, I'm way behind in my posting if I'm putting up a Christmas fic in June, lol. But this was a part of an exchange, as you read above, so I got lazy with posting it everywhere. But I finally got it up on my Livejournal, and I believe this is one of the last places I have left to actually post this one. _

* * *

**Letters to the North Pole**

"Take care of your brother, Dean. I'll be back in a few days," John said, dropping his nine-year-old son back to his feet onto the flat, multi-colored motel carpet.

With that, John Winchester made his way over to the open door, a full to bulging duffle back slung over his shoulder, while five-year-old Sammy waved merrily at his departing dad. However, the full duffle made the proverbial lightbulb go off over Dean's head as he rushed after his dad, pausing in the threshold of the room as John moved around to the back of the black Impala—Dean's favorite place, one he wished he were in rather than this ratty motel—to load his duffle.

"Are you going to be back in time, Dad?" he called, his eyes trailing on the sidewalk in front of the door.

He had taken his shoes off as soon as he had entered the room, and now he was considering putting his exposed toes to the cold cement to follow after his dad. But John would yell at him for sure for stepping outside less than fully clothed… in fact, Dean was pushing it just by standing in the doorway. Sure enough, the moment John headed toward the driver's side door, he paused, pointing very directly over his son's head.

"Get back inside. You're gonna catch a cold," he ordered.

"But Dad… I asked if you were gonna be back in time," the eldest of the Winchester children said.

John's brow furrowed, as if he was trying to figure out what important date could possibly be coming up in the dead of winter. Dean resisted the strong urge to point at the giant, overly decorated wreath hanging on their neighbor's door. It seemed to click as John's face fell. He walked over to Dean, kneeling down so that he was eye-to-eye with him.

"I don't know, Dean. This could take me longer than expected… or it could be shorter. I really don't know," he said, leveling with his son. "Do you understand?"

"Yes, sir," Dean nodded. John stood to leave, but Dean wasn't done with his point.

"It's Christmas, though, Dad," he said.

John arched a brow. "What's gotten into you? You've never really been into Christmas before."

Dean shrugged, glancing over his shoulder at Sam, who was still happily munching on some chips, eyes glued to what looked like the local PBS station. Dean rolled his eyes before looking back at his dad. His brother was such a little geek.

"Sammy's five now," Dean explained. "Before he was just some dumb little kid who couldn't remember what he had for dinner the night before. But he can now. We should do a tree and everything. He's been asking about it."

John seemed to consider that. Finally, he grinned, sighing.

"Tell you what. I'll try. I'll try my hardest. But… people are getting hurt, Dean… I have to go help them."

Dean nodded. He understood. He understood that his dad was a hero, fighting monsters that most thought were just fairy tales. And he was proud of that, and he was prouder still that his dad was already teaching him how to fight them too. He was a man, according to John, and Dean had to work real hard not to puff his chest out just at the thought of that. But, right now, he shuffled his feet and nodded again.

"Be careful, Dad," he muttered.

"Love you, boys," John called, getting into the Impala.

He fired it up, and a moment later, he was gone. Sighing, Dean backed into the room, shutting the door. Sam looked up then.

"Are we getting a tree?" he asked, the last little signs of his baby-talk starting to leave his voice.

Dean looked away, trying not to get drawn in by his younger brother's too-big eyes. A lot of adults got drawn in by them, and sometimes, Dean liked to use that to his advantage. But right now, he just wished he would quit.

"We need a grown-up to get a tree, don't we?" Sam asked all of a sudden, and Dean looked up to see the bright eyes gone and replaced by dim ones and a frown.

Dean pursed his lips. Forcing a smile to his face, he shrugged and moved over to the little table that sat under the window of the room. He patted the space across from him, and Sam moved automatically to sit there, while Dean gathered some paper and a pack of crayons that their dad had gotten for Sam sometime during their last hunt. He passed a piece of paper over to Sam, turning another sheet toward himself.

"What color do you want, green or red?" Dean asked, opening the crayons.

"Why can't I have blue?" Sam asked.

"Because red and green are Christmas colors, and we're gonna write a letter to Santa. Santa pays extra attention if you use those colors."

Sam brightened. "Red, please."

Dean passed him the crayon, while he snatched up the green one for himself. Sam bit at his bottom lip a little, glancing up shyly at his older brother.

"What do I say?" he asked.

"You be real nice, and you tell him what you want for Christmas. Like… say… 'Dear Santa, my name is Sam Winchester, and I've been real good all year long.'"

Sam began to scribble furiously, trying to keep up with his brother. Sam was an excellent speller for his age… Dean was pretty sure that was PBS's fault. So, after a few moments, Sam looked up expectantly. Dean took his seat and shrugged.

"Well… what _do_ you want for Christmas?" Dean asked.

Sam stared blankly at his older brother for a second before smiling brightly. He began to scribble on the paper again, stopping after a moment.

"How do you spell 'Christmas,' Dean?" he asked.

Dean spelled it out for him, and Sam went back to his writing. After a few moments, he looked up, brow crinkled.

"What do you want me to spell now?"

Sam nodded his head toward the paper in front of Dean. "Aren't you gonna write one?"

Dean blinked, looking down. He had said he was going to write one, hadn't he? He smiled, picking up his pine-tree green crayon and pressing it down. That seemed to satisfy his little brother, who went back to his own wish list—which was beginning to look crazy in length. Dean gently pulled up at the crayon, playing with the waxy texture of it as he let the paper stick to it and fall back to the table. He had been so concerned about giving Sammy the best Christmas experience he could… that he hadn't even thought about himself. What did _he_ want?

But he had already answered that question. He wanted Sammy to remember this Christmas as the best one ever. Dean's eyes flitted back toward the door of the room, and suddenly, he knew exactly what he was asking Santa to get him for Christmas. Following his own instructions, he began his letter.

"_Dear Santa_," he wrote, "_My name is Dean Winchester, and I've been really good all year long. Usually I would ask for something super awesome for Christmas, like gun so that I could go kill monsters with Dad. Or to learn how to drive before I'm sixteen—Dad said he _might_ teach me. But this year… This year I only want Sammy to have the best Christmas ever. You see… I don't think my dad is gonna make it back in time to get a tree, or decorations, or anything. And a lot of people won't let me do stuff because I'm just a kid… but I don't want that to stop Sammy from having a merry Christmas. So please, Santa… could you just… do something awesome for my brother? Thanks._"

Dean signed his letter, and gave a little start to look up and see that Sam was staring at him expectantly.

"Now what?" Sam asked.

Dean rolled his eyes, standing. He grabbed his brother's letter, folding it, before doing the same to his own.

"What do you think? We send them to the North Pole."

Sam's eyes lit up, and he was practically vibrating in his chair. Dean turned his brother's folded letter toward him, pointing at the empty space in the middle of the fold.

"Write 'To: Santa, From: Sam.' And then write 'To the North Pole,' underneath."

Sam did so, with Dean's careful instruction on how to make it look. Dean addressed his own letter, and when they had both finished, Dean told Sam to wait for him. Putting his shoes on, he darted outside. On the way into the motel, he had spotted a blue post office box just down the road—at the corner—from the motel. Dean jogged right down to it, sparing the letters only a moment's glance before shoving them inside. Santa would forgive the lack of envelopes, he was sure. After all, he was Santa, known for his jolliness. Shoving his hands inside of his pockets, Dean walked back to the room and his eager brother.

#

T'was the night before Christmas… and nothing was on TV but those clay-mation movies about Rudolf and how Santa got to be Santa. But, more importantly, John Winchester was nowhere to be seen. Dean had remained hopeful for several hours, even taken to just staring out of the singular window in the room for his dad. However, as the sun began to set, the phone rang. Dean knew before he answered who it was going to be… and what news the call would contain.

"Dean?" John's voice came over the phone.

"Hey," Dean said, not wanting Sam to know who he was talking to… just in case. "Where are you?"

There was a beat of silence before John sighed.

"I really tried, Dean… but this thing… it just keeps getting the best of me. I won't make it back in time," John said.

Dean felt his heart thud hard against his chest, and he nodded for the longest moment before he realized he was on the phone.

"Yeah. That's okay."

"Dean… are you all right?"

Dean nodded again before he forced out words. "Yeah. Yeah."

A beat of silence, followed by another sigh.

"Okay. Well, hug your brother for me. I love you. I'll be home as soon as I can."

"I know. I love you too," Dean said, hanging up.

That had caught Sam's attention. He frowned.

"Dad's not coming home," he said.

Dean shook his head. "No. Work… he has too much work. But he'll be back soon."

Sam looked like he might cry, and Dean scratched the back of his head uncomfortably. After a moment, Sam got up and turned off the TV.

"What are you doing?" Dean asked.

Sam crawled under the covers of his bed, turning off the lamp closest to him.

"I think I'm just going to go to sleep."

Dean nodded. "Good idea."

He got up, pulling the covers up a bit snugger around his little brother before beginning to get ready for bed himself. The sooner this Christmas came and went, the better.

#

John Winchester had taught his boys to be cautious. And, in particular, he had begun to show Dean how to use the gun he had started to leave with him. So, when Dean heard a noise on the roof above his head—on their _one level_ motel—he knew exactly what to do. He grabbed the gun up, loading it before Sammy began to stir. Rubbing the sleep from his eyes, the younger Winchester yawned.

"Dean?" he asked.

But Dean shushed him, aiming the small caliber rifle at the door. He could hear heavy footsteps just outside of it, and his grip tightened on the weapon.

"Dean, what's going on?" Sam asked, fear edging into his voice.

But Dean's focus was locked on the door, glad that he always remembered to lock it—just like John wanted. However, much to his horror, he watched as the chain slid out of place of its own accord and the deadbolt turned the other way. Dean lifted the rifle higher as the door opened.

"Ho, ho, ho!" boomed into the room before their visitor did, and Dean dropped the gun out of pure shock.

His suit was the brightest, deepest crimson Dean had ever seen, lined in pristine white fur. A black belt with a large gold buckle was clearly visible, as well as his heavy black boots. His cheeks were red and rosy, with a full white beard and mustache falling down to mid-chest. He removed his hat as he closed the door behind him, setting his large—also red—bag onto the floor.

"Santa!" Sam yelled, launching himself off the bed.

He collided into the jolly, fat man, wrapping his arms around him like he did his dad—or Uncle Bobby. Santa returned the hug with a bright smile.

"Well, hello there, Sam," he said, his voice strong and loud, but soothing all the same.

"Santa! I can't believe it! You're really here!" Sam said.

He nodded, looking up to lock eyes with the shocked-still Dean.

"Boys shouldn't play with guns, young man," he said, wagging a finger at the older brother.

Dean's mouth moved, but no sound came out. Santa laughed.

"I know you were just protecting your brother, like your dad taught you. But you have to be careful," the jolly elf said, his belly shaking just like that friggin' bowl full of jelly.

"Santa? Is that… is it really _you_?" he asked.

Santa nodded, reaching back and grabbing his bag. "Yes, it is, Dean. I got your letters."

He reached into the bag, withdrawing a G.I. Joe box with a bright gold ribbon on it, and handing it to Sam. The younger Winchester's eyes threatened to bulge right out his head as he gently took the gift from Santa.

"Thank you," he all but whispered.

"You're quite welcome, young man."

With that, Sam backed up back to his bed, tearing into the packaging of the toy. Dean now approached the jolly old elf, his own eyes just as wide as his brother's had been.

"Dad?" he whispered, leaning in.

Santa shook his head. "No, Dean. It's really me. Santa Claus. And I really did receive your letter. You wanted something—how did you put it—'awesome' for your brother? Well, what do you think?"

Santa Claus _personally_ showing up to chat with you instead of just dropping the presents and going? Yeah, awesome had been achieved. Dean grinned, but still shook his head.

"But… but… why me? I mean, I'm sure a bunch of kids have asked you to show up before… why did you choose to hang out with _us_?"

Santa kneeled down, much as John had when he had left for his hunt. He even placed a hand on the young man's shoulders.

"You're very right, Dean. Hundreds of thousands of children all around the globe have asked me to stop by and talk with them before. But they've all asked for _themselves_. Yours is the first letter I've had in ages that asked nothing for yourself… and something for your brother. That's the true spirit of Christmas, Dean. One that a lot of people forget. But… you're still sad about your dad, aren't you?"

Dean blinked, surprised. Santa really was magical because he was right. As happy and thrilled as he was that _the_ Santa had shown up to give his brother an awesome Christmas he would never forget… it still wasn't his dad. Dean nodded, but Santa smiled and laughed his famous "ho, ho, ho."

"You know what else we forget sometimes, Dean?"

Dean shook his head. "What?"

"Sometimes we forget how much our parents do for us, and that they're only human. I know your Dad was really proud of you, Dean, for asking him to be back in time so that your brother could have a good Christmas. And he was telling you the truth. He really did try."

"I know. I know he tried."

Santa nodded, standing. Sam looked up from his toy, and Santa smiled.

"I have to go now and continue to deliver presents. Have a merry Christmas, boys. And never forget to cherish the real gift of the season—family. And, who knows… maybe you boys will have another present in the morning. Ho, ho, ho!"

And with that, he grabbed up his bag, and was gone. Sam jumped up and down in place.

"Dean! Dean! Santa! Santa was _here_! I met _Santa_!" he said.

Dean laughed. "Yeah. Now get back to bed, or dad will kill me."

"But… but…"

"Go."

#

Next to Santa Claus showing up in their motel room, there was only one other way Dean wanted to wake up on Christmas morning. And, much to his surprise, he got his wish. As his eyes flickered open, he found himself face to face with the smiling features of his father.

"Dad!" he said, launching himself forward into hug.

"Hey, Dean," John laughed.

Sam was already awake, sitting at the table with a bowl of cereal, swinging his legs happily underneath the table.

"Dad! How did you get here? I thought… you said…"

Dean pulled out of the hug, and John patting his son on the back.

"I got done. Actually, only a half hour after I called you, I caught up with… well, I caught up and got it done. Then I headed back here. So, what do you boys want to do?"

"I want to go make a snowman!" Sam yelled from his seat.

Dean smiled. "Yeah, that sounds awesome!"

John nodded. "All right. After you boys eat, we'll go build snowmen. We'll even buy carrots for a nose and everything."

John guided Dean off the bed and across the table from his brother, setting an empty bowl in front of him. A moment later, it was filled with milk and cereal, and Dean happily munched away while chatting idly with his dad and Sam about what they could do on that Christmas day. Then, after a moment, John's brow furrowed, his eyes landing on the now open G.I. Joe action figure on the other side of Sam's cereal bowl.

"Where did you get that?" he asked.

Sam gasped. "I can't believe I forgot! Dad… Me and Dean met Santa! He gave me this! It was so _cool_!"

John smiled big, glancing to Dean before turning back to his youngest son.

"Really? _The_ Santa? Well, wasn't that nice of him. Did you thank him?"

"Yes, sir."

"Good. Now, go get washed up so we can build that snowman."

Sam bounded off the chair and into the bathroom, shutting the door behind him. Then, John beamed over at Dean.

"I'm real proud of you son. You dressed up as Santa to make your brother happy. That was nice."

But Dean shook his head. "I didn't dress up, Dad. I swear. It really _was_ Santa. I even heard the hooves. And he knew that you really did try to get back here. In fact, he said that we might have another present in the morning… I think he meant you, Dad."

John's smile vanished as he stood. Dean's brow furrowed.

"What's wrong?"

John immediately went to searching the room, upturning anything and everything he could. However, after nothing else could be moved, he turned back to Dean, confusion all over his face.

"Dad?"

"There's no hex bags…" John murmured.

"Dad?" Dean tried again.

John shook his head, seeming not to hear Dean. "So… Santa's really _real_? And he really delivers presents to good boys and girls?"

At that precise moment, Sam exited the bathroom. He gazed about the room before meeting his father's eyes.

"What about Santa?"

Dean nodded. "Yeah, what do you mean, 'he's really real'?"

**~End~**


End file.
